Until the autumn of
this year, life had seemed to flow in one steady, unchanging current. The
thought had not entered little Nan Prince's head that changes might be
in store for her, for, ever since she could remember, the events of life
had followed each other quietly, and except for the differences in every-day
work and play, caused by the succession of the seasons, she was not called
upon to accommodate herself to new conditions. It was a gentle change at
first: as the days grew shorter and the house and cellar were being made
ready for winter, her grandmother seemed to have much more to do than usual,
and Nan must stay at home to help. She was growing older at any rate; she
knew how to help better than she used; she was anxious to show her grandmother
how well she could work, and as the river side and the windy pastures grew
less hospitable, she did not notice that she was no longer encouraged to
go out to play for hours together to amuse herself as best she might, and
at any rate keep out of the way. It seemed natural enough now that she
should stay in the house, and be entrusted with some regular part of the
business of keeping it. For some time Mrs. Thacher had kept but one cow,
and early in November, after a good offer for old Brindle had been accepted,
it was announced to Nan's surprise that the young cow which was to be Brindle's
successor need not be bought until spring; she would be a great care in
winter time, and Nan was to bring a quart of milk a day from Jake and Martin's.
This did not seem an unpleasant duty while the mild weather lasted; if
there came a rainy day, one of the kind neighbors would leave the little
pail on his way to the village before the young messenger had started out.

Nan could not exactly understand
at last why Mrs. Jake and Mrs. Martin always asked about her grandmother
every morning with so much interest and curiosity, or why they came oftener
and oftener to help with the heavy work. Mrs. Thacher had never before
minded her occasional illnesses so much, and some time passed before Nan's
inexperienced eyes and fearless young heart understood that the whole atmosphere
which overhung the landscape of her life had somehow changed, that another
winter approached full of mystery and strangeness and discomfort of mind,
and at last a great storm was almost ready to break into the shelter and
comfort of her simple life. Poor Nan! She could not think what it all meant.
She was asked many a distressing question, and openly pitied, and heard
her future discussed, as if her world might come to an end any day. The
doctor had visited her grandmother from time to time, but always while
she was at school, until vacation came, and poor Mrs. Thacher grew too
feeble to enter into even a part of the usual business of the farm-house.

One morning, as Nan was coming
back from the Dyer farm with the milk, she met Mrs. Meeker in the highway.
This neighbor and our heroine were rarely on good terms with each other,
since Nan had usually laid herself under some serious charge of wrong-doing,
and had come to believe that she would be disapproved in any event, and
so might enjoy life as she chose, and revel in harmless malice.

The child could not have told
why she shrank from meeting her enemy so much more than usual, and tried
to discover some refuge or chance for escape; but, as it was an open bit
of the road, and a straight way to the lane, she could have no excuse for
scrambling over the stone wall and cutting short the distance. However,
her second thought scorned the idea of running away in such cowardly fashion,
and not having any recent misdemeanor on her conscience, she went forward
unflinchingly.

Mrs. Meeker's tone was not one
of complaint, but of pity, and insinuating friendliness. "How's your grandma
to-day?" she asked, and Nan, with an unsympathetic answer of "About the
same," stepped bravely forward, resenting with all her young soul the discovery
that Mrs. Meeker had turned and was walking alongside.

"She's been a good, kind grandma
to you, hain't she?" said this unwelcome companion, and when Nan had returned
a wondering but almost inaudible assent, she continued, "She'll be a great
loss to you, I can tell you. You'll never find nobody to do for you like
her. There, you won't realize nothing about it till you've got older 'n
you be now; but the time'll come when" -- and her sharp voice faltered;
for Nan had turned to look full in her face, had stopped still in the frozen
road, dropped the pail unconsciously and given a little cry, and in another
moment was running as a chased wild creature does toward the refuge of
its nest. The doctor's horse was fastened at the head of the lane, and
Nan knew at last, what any one in the neighborhood could have told her
many days before, that her grandmother was going to die. Mrs. Meeker stared
after her with a grieved sense of the abrupt ending of the coveted interview,
then she recovered her self-possession, and, picking up the forsaken pail,
stepped lightly over the ruts and frozen puddles, following Nan eagerly
in the hope of witnessing more of such extraordinary behavior, and with
the design of offering her services as watcher or nurse in these last hours.
At any rate the pail and the milk, which had not been spilt, could not
be left in the road.

So the first chapter of the child's
life was ended in the early winter weather. There was a new unsheltered
grave on the slope above the river, the farm-house door was shut and locked,
and the light was out in the kitchen window. It had been a landmark to
those who were used to driving along the road by night, and there were
sincere mourners for the kindly woman who had kept a simple faith and uprightness
all through her long life of trouble and disappointment. Nan and the cat
had gone to live in the village, and both, being young, had taken the change
with serenity; though at first a piteous sorrow had been waked in the child's
heart, a keen and dreadful fear of the future. The past seemed so secure
and pleasant, as she looked back, and now she was in the power of a fateful
future which had begun with something like a whirlwind that had swept over
her, leaving nothing unchanged. It seemed to her that this was to be incessant,
and that being grown up was to be at the mercy of sorrow and uncertainty.
She was pale and quiet during her last days in the old home, answering
questions and obeying directions mechanically; but usually sitting in the
least visited part of the kitchen, watching the neighbors as they examined
her grandmother's possessions, and properly disposed of the contents of
the house. Sometimes a spark flew from her sad and angry eyes, but she
made no trouble, and seemed dull and indifferent. Late in the evening Dr.
Leslie carried her home with him through the first heavy snow-storm of
the year, and between the excitement of being covered from the fast-falling
flakes, and so making a journey in the dark, and of keeping hold of the
basket which contained the enraged kitten, the grief at leaving home was
not dwelt upon.

When she had been unwound from
one of the doctor's great cloaks, and her eyes had grown used to the bright
light in the dining-room, and Marilla had said that supper had been waiting
half an hour, and she did not know how she should get along with a black
cat, and then bustled about talking much faster than usual, because the
sight of the lonely child had made her ready to cry, Nan began to feel
comforted. It seemed a great while ago that she had cried at her grandmother's
funeral. If this were the future it was certainly very welcome and already
very dear, and the time of distress was like a night of bad dreams between
two pleasant days.

It will easily be understood
that no great change was made in Dr. Leslie's house. The doctor himself
and Marilla were both well settled in their habits, and while they cordially
made room for the little girl who was to be the third member of the household,
her coming made little difference to either of her elders. There was a
great deal of illness that winter, and the doctor was more than commonly
busy; Nan was sent to school, and discovered the delight of reading one
stormy day when her guardian had given her leave to stay at home, and she
had found his own old copy of Robinson
Crusoe looking most friendly and inviting in a corner of one of the
study shelves. As for school, she had never liked it, and the village school
gave her far greater misery than the weather-beaten building at the cross-roads
ever had done. She had known many of the village children by sight, from
seeing them in church, but she did not number many friends among them,
even after the winter was nearly gone and the days began to grow brighter
and less cold, and the out-of-door games were a source of great merriment
in the playground. Nan's ideas of life were quite unlike those held by
these new acquaintances, and she could not gain the least interest in most
of the other children, though she grew fond of one boy who was a famous
rover and fisherman, and after one of the elder girls had read a composition
which fired our heroine's imagination, she worshiped this superior being
from a suitable distance, and was her willing adorer and slave. The composition
was upon The Moon, and when the author proclaimed the fact that this was
the same moon which had looked down upon Abraham,
Isaac, and Jacob, little Nan's eyes had opened wide with reverence
and awe, and she opened the doors of her heart and soul to lofty thought
and high imagination. The big girl, who sat in the back seat and glibly
recited amazing lessons in history, and did sums which entirely covered
the one small blackboard, was not unmindful of Nan's admiration, and stolidly
accepted and munched the offerings of cracked nuts, or of the treasured
English apples which had been brought from the farm and kept like a squirrel's
hoard in an archway of the cellar by themselves. Nan cherished an idea
of going back to the farm to live by herself as soon as she grew a little
older, and she indulged in pleasing day-dreams of a most charming life
there, with frequent entertainments for her friends, at which the author
of the information about the moon would be the favored guest, and Nan herself,
in a most childish and provincial fashion, the reigning queen. What did
these new town-acquaintances know of the strawberries which grew in the
bit of meadow, or the great high-bush blackberries by one of the pasture
walls, and what would their pleasure be when they were taken down the river
some moonlight night and caught sight of a fire blazing on a distant bank,
and went nearer to find a sumptuous feast which Nan herself had arranged?
She had been told that her aunt -- that mysterious and beneficent aunt
-- had already sent her money which was lying idle in the bank until she
should need to spend it, and her imaginary riches increased week by week,
while her horizon of future happiness constantly grew wider.

The other children were not unwilling
at first to enter upon an inquisitive friendship with the new-comer; but
Marilla was so uncongenial to the noisy visitors, and so fastidious in
the matter of snowy and muddy shoes, that she was soon avoided. Nan herself
was a teachable child and gave little trouble, and Marilla sometimes congratulated
herself because she had reserved the violent objections which had occurred
to her mind when the doctor had announced, just before Mrs. Thacher's death,
that his ward would henceforth find a home in his house.

Marilla usually sat in the dining-room
in the evening, though she was apt to visit the study occasionally, knitting
in hand, to give her opinions, or to acquaint herself with various events
of which she thought the doctor would be likely to have knowledge. Sometimes
in the colder winter nights, she drew a convenient light-stand close beside
the kitchen stove and refused to wander far from such comfortable warmth.
Now that she had Nan's busy feet to cover, there was less danger than ever
that she should be left without knitting-work, and she deeply enjoyed the
child's company, since Nan could give innocent answers to many questions
which could never be put to elder members of the Dyer and Thacher neighborhood.
Mrs. Meeker was apt to be discussed with great freedom, and Nan told long
stories about her own childish experiences, which were listened to and
encouraged, and matched with others even longer and more circumstantial
by Marilla. The doctor, who was always reading when he could find a quiet
hour for himself, often smiled as he heard the steady sound of voices from
the wide kitchen, and he more than once took a few careful steps into the
dining-room, and stood there shaking with laughter at the character of
the conversation. Nan, though eager to learn, and curious about many things
in life and nature, at first found her school lessons difficult, and sometimes
came appealingly to him for assistance, when circumstances had made a temporary
ending of her total indifference to getting the lessons at all. For this
and other reasons she sometimes sought the study, and drew a small chair
beside the doctor's large one before the blazing fire of the black birch
logs; and then Marilla in her turn would venture upon the neutral ground
between study and kitchen, and smile with satisfaction at the cheerful
companionship of the tired man and the idle little girl who had already
found her way to his lonely heart. Nan had come to another home; there
was no question about what should be done with her and for her, but she
was made free of the silent old house, and went on growing taller, and
growing dearer, and growing happier day by day. Whatever the future might
bring, she would be sure to look back with love and longing to the first
summer of her village life, when, seeing that she looked pale and drooping,
the doctor, to her intense gratification, took her away from school. Presently,
instead of having a ride out into the country as an occasional favor, she
might be seen every day by the doctor's side, as if he could not make his
morning rounds without her; and in and out of the farm-houses she went,
following him like a little dog, or, as Marilla scornfully expressed it,
a briar at his heels; sitting soberly by when he dealt his medicines and
gave advice, listening to his wise and merry talk with some, and his helpful
advice and consolation to others of the country people. Many of these acquaintances
treated Nan with great kindness; she half belonged to them, and was deeply
interesting for the sake of her other ties of blood and bonds of fortune,
while she took their courtesy with thankfulness, and their lack of notice
with composure. If there were a shiny apple offered she was glad, but if
not, she did not miss it, since her chief delight was in being the doctor's
assistant and attendant, and her eyes were always watching for chances
when she might be of use. And one day, coming out from a bedroom, the doctor
discovered, to his amusement, that her quick and careful fingers had folded
the papers of some powders which he had left unfolded on the table. As
they drove home together in the bright noon sunshine, he said, as if the
question were asked for the sake of joking a little, "What are you going
to do when you grow up, Nan?" to which she answered gravely, as if it were
the one great question of her life, "I should like best to be a doctor."
Strangely enough there flitted through the doctor's mind a remembrance
of the day when he had talked with Mrs. Meeker, and had looked up the lane
to see the unlucky turkey whose leg had been put into splints. He had wished
more than once that he had taken pains to see how the child had managed
it; but old Mrs. Thacher had reported the case to have been at least partially
successful.

Nan had stolen a look at her
companion after the answer had been given, but had been pleased and comforted
to find that he was not laughing at her, and at once began a lively picture
of becoming famous in her chosen profession, and the valued partner of
Dr. Leslie, whose skill everybody praised so heartily. He should not go
out at night, and she would help him so much that he would wonder how he
ever had been able to manage his wide-spread practice alone. It was a matter
of no concern to her that Marilla had laughed when she had been told of
Nan's intentions, and had spoken disrespectfully of women doctors; and
the child's heart was full of pride and hope. The doctor stopped his horse
suddenly to show Nan some flowers which grew
at the roadside,
some brilliant cardinals, and
she climbed quickly down to gather them. There was an unwritten law that
they should keep watch, one to the right hand, and the other to the left,
and such treasures of blossoms or wild fruit seldom escaped Nan's vision.
Now she felt as if she had been wrong to let her thoughts go wandering,
and her cheeks were almost as bright as the scarlet flowers themselves,
as she clambered back to the wagon seat. But the doctor was in deep thought,
and had nothing more to say for the next mile or two. It had become like
a bad-case day suddenly and without apparent reason; but Nan had no suspicion
that she was the patient in charge whose welfare seemed to the doctor to
be dependent upon his own decisions.